


Infiltrate You and Me

by queerwatson



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shop, M/M, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:38:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/705000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerwatson/pseuds/queerwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I believe there is another world waiting for us Sixthsmith. A better world. And I'll be waiting for you there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infiltrate You and Me

**Author's Note:**

> I've tried to make this as non-confusing as possible by keeping career and gender the same, and keeping the first letters of their surnames, but Fairbairn is Frobisher and Spurling is Sixsmith. Basically just a postscript to the film in which the lovers get their happy ending, so that I can sleep well at night. Title from Cosmic Gall by John Updike.

He finds he does his best work in a coffee shop. Strange, for a physicist, probably, but Asher likes the strange combination of loud and quiet. The constant murmur is a comfort that swirls in his mind with the equations he’s working on, and together with the bite of coffee at the back of his tongue, he whiles away his afternoons, happy.

Equations are beautiful, he thinks. Some people like sciences because they’re concrete. He’s never been that way, though. There’s a fluidity in science and in numbers and math that has always been what drew him in.

Admittedly, he admires art and the aesthetics. Always has. That’s why it’s no surprise to him that when the wiry man ascends the stage, looking much like some androgynous Greek beauty, Asher’s attention is drawn completely away from his work.

Though he curses himself for it, he can never remember what day it was when that music first pulled him out of himself and taunted just at the edge of familiarity, as though he’d heard it in a dream. He just knew that instead of the usual live entertainment of some mild-voiced person with an acoustic guitar, adding to the innocuous, endearing chatter, there was suddenly music that ensnared his every sense. A piano tune he could very nearly taste on his tongue like tobacco and blackberries and vanilla.

Typically, he is not a social person. He keeps to himself and to his equations. On that afternoon, though, he cannot keep himself from approaching the musician and offering to buy his coffee for the lovely performance. He earns a smile that is at the very least as beautiful as the lips that surround it, if not enough on its own to deserve sonnets that Asher could not possibly write.

“Of course. Thank you...”

There’s an obvious pause, one where Asher is meant to place his name. “Asher. Asher Spurling.”

“Isaac Fairbairn. Nice to meet you.”

It occurs to him then that he must simply be lucky to have reached the musician first. Beautiful and talented, he must be the very center of attention of everyone in the room. He cannot manage to tear his eyes away to check.

“Yes, yes. Absolutely. I’m not really sure on the protocol for this, but... what was that last song you were playing? I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

Isaac’s brow furrows, and Asher is terrified he’s ruined his chances in only a moment. “That seems... unlikely. I haven’t performed it very often.”

Asher is dumbfounded, if only for a moment. Words escape him often - speaking in equations would suit him much better from time to time, but at this very second, it doesn’t take long. “You... you wrote it? That’s remarkable.”

That earns him another near-perfect smile. “I did, yes. Thank you. It’s possible... When I wrote it, I was... very nearly obsessed with a particular composer. Not many people have heard his work, so if I snitched anything, I tend to get away with it. I certainly hope I haven’t stolen directly, though. I respect him far too much.”

Hm. Possible. Asher doesn’t typically make a habit of listening to composers, but... something is nagging at the back of his mind. “What was his name?”

“Robert Frobisher.”

Frobisher. The record he’d found shoved in the dusty corner of his house’s attic. He smiles. “That would explain the familiarity. I don’t think you’ve taken too much, no. Besides, composers tend to be inspired by other composers. I’m certain he’d be flattered. After all, that was... beautiful.”

The two of them keep eye contact, and Isaac keeps smiling at him, and God, it’s impossible that Asher could already be in love. He knows almost nothing about this man, except that he’s very beautiful and very talented and a magnificent conversationalist.

“Would you want to keep talking over dinner tonight? I’m afraid I have a few things to take care of, but I’d love to keep speaking. There’s something fascinating about you.”

He can feel the tips of his ears redden, and he nods, speechless for another moment.

“Excellent. Here.” Isaac fishes Asher’s phone out of his pocket and puts in his number. “Text me, so I’ll be able to get in touch with you. When I’m free, we can figure out where we’d like to go. I look forward to seeing you again.”

With a kiss against Asher’s cheek, the beautiful musician is gone, but with a hand over his phone, which rests right over his heart, the absence doesn’t really feel like an absence.

That night, when Isaac arrives ten minutes late but infinitely apologetic, they will talk about music and art and literature and Asher will speak with enthusiasm about his love of physics, and Isaac will smile, endeared by his excitement and rambling rather than bored purely by the subject. They will eat dinner and dessert, then take a long walk through the park, which ends with a rather picturesque snog against a tree. By the time they manage to part, the sun will be peeking up over the horizon, and Isaac will wax poetic about his love of sunrises.

Months and months later, in a shared bed, in a shared apartment, Spurling will wake with a start from horribly unsettling dreams. He will remember only Isaac being somewhere, somewhere close, but being unable to find him - then the sound of a gunshot, running up stairs, and finding it’s already too late.

He will turn to look beside him, and Isaac will already be blinking at him, sleepily.

“Is something wrong?”

“Just a dream. But it was... awful. We were in love, still, other people, but you... God it was terrible.”

Frowning, Isaac will sit up, and reach over, one hand cradling Asher’ cheek. “I’ve had dreams like that. Smoking on a terrace. Seeing you and not saying a word, knowing it would be my last glimpse. Me, and yet...”

“Not you?”

Issac will nod, and Asher will press close to kiss him. “Strange. That we would have the same dream.”

In that enigmatic perfect way, Isaac will smile, and Asher will fall the slightest bit more in love with him. “Not so strange. The good news is that they’re only dreams.”

Still exchanging kisses, they will settle back into bed against each other, and fall asleep. They’ll dream instead of shared sunrises and sunny English lawns and laughing while they watch fine china shatter. Of Robert Frobisher and Rufus Sixsmith.


End file.
